


the long night

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Extra Treat, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Huddling together in the dead of winter makes Tyrion realize he is not up to the task of keeping another warm. Especially when the other is his wife by arrangement, the Lady of Winterfell - or what remains of it.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	the long night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corina (CorinaLannister)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



Huddling together in the dead of winter makes Tyrion realize he is not up to the task of keeping another warm. Especially when the other is his wife by arrangement, the Lady of Winterfell - or what remains of it.

Not one single star shines down from the night sky. The Night King may have snuffed them out too. Tyrion still hears the thump of boots chasing them. The splinter of stones in the crypt, followed by panic and screaming - so much screaming.

Lying now with only a low hanging bush for protection, Tyrion can admit that he didn’t expect to make it out. Perhaps he should have given himself better odds with all he has survived since birth. But he thought he would die, he truly did.

For all he knows, his brother perished among the legions of the dead. Perhaps Jaime marches with them now, as do all they once knew. As Tyrion fled, he could not think of Jaime, nor Daenerys, nor Jon Snow. But now, tears burn his eyes - the only place on his body that feels warm.

When the crypt cracked open and the smell of blood thickened the air, Tyrion decided to provide a distraction so Sansa could escape. Sansa could take others with her, he reasoned; frightened children, the sick and elderly. Anyone who could still run for their lives.

Or, it would only be Sansa who survived. That alone was worth the sacrifice to Tyrion. Resolved, he lifted the dagger and presented his unlucky body as a sacrifice.

The next second, Sansa clasped his arm, and they were running. Tyrion saw nothing but flickering torches and the frantic sway of Sansa’s skirts.

Together, they made it out, stale air of the crypt giving way to the lip-tingling winds of winter. Tyrion could not make out individual faces in the fray. There was snow, or was it ash, fluttering down in heavy flakes. The walls of Winterfell were a pile of rubble. Swords clanged, cries rang out, and blue fire pierced the black sky.

“Come on,” Sansa hissed, and they were off again. Out into the woods away from the battle. With no moon or stars to guide his direction, Tyrion could only follow. His meager legs stumbled over raised vines.

Tyrion had no clue where they were going, only that they swerved at any sound of nearby footsteps. On multiple occasions, there were growls. Not of man or beast; terrible, rasping sounds. The dust-caked call of the dead.

They ran and ran, until Tyrion’s legs burned and his lungs quaked in his chest. His first attempt to speak came out as a wheeze. On his second attempt, he clasped a shuddering hand to his chest. “Go on,” Tyrion gasped. “Get as...far as you can...so they cannot-”

“We’ll find a place to hide.” Sansa came to an abrupt stop, and Tyrion nearly bumped into her legs. She glared back. “You’ll keep moving until then.”

Tyrion recognized the fear under her anger. The desperation that forced her to hold her head high even with the snow soaking through their shoes.

Sansa broke Tyrion’s heart as she’s broken it so many times before. For her, he forced his body to keep moving. To find the fallen stump hanging over a narrow enclave. The low-hanging bush and the stretch of trees overhead. In this thick tangle of forest, they would go undetected by the keen eye of the Night King’s dragon. And the narrow rut in the ground would keep them hidden from standard foot patrols, at least until morning.

It goes unspoken that they cannot light a fire. They gather what dry leaves or branches they find and cover their tracks and the opening to the enclave. Then, they nestle shoulder to shoulder, the chill of night and its events soaking into their bones.

Sansa shivers against Tyrion’s side. Tyrion takes her hands between his; he lacks the size to shield her, but at least this he can do. When she glances at him, he smiles, though it must look more like a wince. Tyrion hurts all over. Pain stabs through his legs and weighs on his overworked lungs like a mountain. (Or the Mountain for that matter.)

Tucked away, no more reason to hold herself strong, the fear is palpable on Sansa's face. As is grief, reality sinking in. Beyond they two there is no telling who will survive the night. Winterfell will not, this much is certain, its once proud palace reduced to crumbled rocks.

Tyrion wonders how long it will take for his sister to hear of the calamity. Perhaps the Night King will ride south and inform Cersei himself.

“Please don’t think me forward, my lady,” Tyrion says. He guides Sansa’s hands inside his garments to his stomach.

Despite Tyrion’s shivering, his skin is warm, unlike Sansa’s fingers which feel like ice under his clothes. Tyrion grits his teeth against the new spike of chill. It’s worth it for Sansa’s grateful exhale.

Her hands roam to his back, leaving a trail of tingling cold. Tyrion finds himself in her embrace, head tucked to a bosom more ample than it once was. “Do the same with me,” Sansa says.

It is comforting that survival instinct has not overtaken Tyrion’s decorum. His first reaction is shock, no matter how the frigid air numbs his fingers. “Sansa, I-”

“Do it,” Sansa repeats. It is impossible to deny her a second time.

Following the order is difficult, what with the corseted top and his frozen hands. But he finally succeeds, unlaced top giving way to looser undergarments beneath. These, Tyrion can draw up enough to allow his hands inside. Her skin heats his, soft under his fingers. She gasps against his hair.

“Sansa,” Tyrion protests, starting to withdraw.

“Don’t,” Sansa grits.

Her conviction is strong enough to make Tyrion stay where he is. That, and his own weakness. In any situation - the dead of night or the safety of a hearth-warmed chamber - Sansa’s skin would feel divine. Youth holds her firm, yet her sides curve as a promise of the woman she is becoming.

Sansa bows over him like a protective mother, her breaths warm and humid on his face. His burst ragged against the swell of her breasts. He strokes her side. If he’s lucky, she will find the touch somewhat comforting given the circumstances.

“Do you think anyone made it out alive?” she asks. Her voice comes out as a croak, soft but too splintered to be hopeful.

“We did,” Tyrion tells her, lifting his head. His beard scrapes her bosom, but Tyrion cannot be mindful of decorum any longer. Not as close as Sansa is to him, not with the wondering look she gives him.

Sansa does not reply in words, but her fingers trace down his spine. Line by line, ridge by ridge, she walks her fingers down to the place right above his trousers. A new furnace lights in his belly.

Tyrion decides at this moment that he will stay alive. For Sansa if not for himself. He will live to see what lies beyond this day, whether it be dream or nightmare. And he will stand with her, and for her, for the rest of his days. Not that he has many left.

It’s as their marriage should have been. Only, with fewer dead things trying to kill them. Also, with a fireplace, or at least a blanket or two.

“You’re shaking,” Sansa whispers.

“As are you,” Tyrion murmurs back.

She tightens her arms around him, and Tyrion returns the gesture. He cannot reach all the way around, but he drapes an arm around her waist and presses himself close to her. Even buried in dirt and leaves, she somehow smells sweet.

Howling winds tear down the few leaves clinging desperately to tree branches. Tyrion cannot hide the shudder that rolls through his body. He barely feels his feet despite tucking them close.

“It will be morning soon, my lady,” Tyrion stutters through the cold. “I don’t suppose you’d like to watch the sun rise with me?”

“I haven’t done so in many years.” By her thickened sound, Tyrion would think Sansa is crying. But he cannot see her face to confirm, bowed as she is against his hair. “I’d like to. With you.”

“Of course.” Tyrion's lips brush her collar; he can only hope she’ll forgive him the slip given their circumstances. “We’ll watch the sun emerge together,” he promises. “You and me.”

“You and me,” Sansa agrees. A kiss touches the mess of curls on Tyrion’s head. Whether sympathy, camaraderie, or whatever else, it makes Tyrion smile.

He carries the warmth with him into a fitful sleep. Soon, this dreadful night will turn to morning. Surely then, the sun must rise again.


End file.
